


A Family Affair

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Angst, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Brotherly Angst, Brothers At War, Courtroom Drama, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Lawyer Dean Winchester, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Lawyers, Little Bit of Everything To Balance Out the Angst, M/M, Other, Plot Twists, Sam is a dick, Slow Burn from Dick Sam Winchester, Some Fluff, but he gets better I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 12:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14472732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “As a prosecuting attorney, you may think my job is to convince you of someone’s guilt, when, in fact, I’m simply here to offer the perspective you already have,” he continues, striding before the jurors with his hands glued to his back. “Not that Martin Creaser is a straight-up murderer. I have enough evidence to convince you of that. No, that a man is dead.”Dean’s voice nearly cracks on that last word. Even as a professional, it’s hard to keep his tone free of bias. “The father of my client, Elizabeth Lafitte, was brutally murdered in his own restaurant."





	A Family Affair

**Author's Note:**

> So HI! No, I'm not typing from Heaven. I have been writing and finishing at my normal pace (except they're a lot longer for some reason, but I'll take it, so long as this means I can actually sleep a little more now), BUT, and with this comes some exciting news...
> 
> I'M. GETTING. FAN. ART.
> 
> It's been so, so long since I've physically reached out to someone about fan art -- and this time I didn't even have to ask. Until it's posted, because this is the fic I wrote before this one, I'll leave my thank you's out. So yeah, expect some hella cool shit coming your way!
> 
> For now, enjoy this one I'm also hella proud of. <3
> 
> Also, as a disclaimer: As passionate and interested as I am about true crime, I know little to nothing about how a court functions, but I did do some research. Hopefully I got it somewhat accurate.
> 
> And I'm well aware the vast majority of people with major mental illness do NOT commit crimes, but because this is Supernatural, which is also fiction, I am embellishing in Martin Creaser's character.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I want to start off by stating something you probably have never heard from a lawyer’s mouth: I’m going to be honest with you.”

Dean pauses for emphasis, giving him time to learn the jurors. Most are a variety of ages—not to mention personalities. One girl on the far left is smacking her gum whilst twirling a long, wavy blonde lock with her bleakly painted black nails, and what looks to be checking out a Spanish girl with equally twisty hair.

One guy in the middle is leaned as far back in his chair as he can, arms folded and eyes pinched, as if he’s inconvenienced by not only the trial, but by Dean’s presence, and the elderly woman on the far right seems to be a bit _too_ interested. Not only in Dean, but in everything around her.

Luckily, the topic of his opening statement reaches all demographics, from the lost and still searching to the lost and… well, _still searching._ Dean’s father is only 65, but he’s already reaching that point of no return with his memory.

“As a prosecuting attorney, you may think my job is to convince you of someone’s guilt, when, in fact, I’m simply here to offer the perspective you already have,” he continues, striding before the jurors with his hands glued to his back. “Not that Martin Creaser is a straight-up murderer. I have enough evidence to convince you of that. No, that a man is dead.”

Dean’s voice nearly cracks on that last word. Even as a professional, it’s hard to keep his tone free of bias. “The father of my client, Elizabeth Lafitte, was brutally murdered in his own restaurant. The place he single-handedly built from the ground up. The place he and his daughter openly bonded over their shared passion for cooking. The one place people complimented, rather than turned their nose at him for something as superficial as his hulking physique.”

“The one place he felt the safest.”

“I can’t even begin to comprehend the losses each of you has experienced in your own life. But what I _can_ do is ask that you keep those losses in mind for the duration of this trial. And ask yourself, if you had the opportunity to seek justice for those losses—if the person or thing responsible for your loved one’s death offered itself on a silver platter—would you accept it? Or would you go hungry? Thank you.”

 

 

Sam pretends the papers on his desk need more straightening before standing up. He then flattens his Armani suit, as if it isn’t ironed to the invisible seams.

As predicted, Sam goes with the good ole reliable schmoozing technique—with a twist:

“Ladies and gentlemen of this fine jury, thank you all for taking the time out of your busy schedules. Life is hectic, and messy, and stressful. Sometimes you’re living paycheck-to-paycheck. Sometimes those paychecks get delayed. Then what? How do you pay for the electricity bill? Or the gas to get _to_ the origin of your paychecks?”

“Now, I know what you’re thinking: He’s a lawyer. He’s trying to relate to me on _his_ salary?” Sam shrugs. “And you’d be right. I _don’t_ know what it’s like. But you know who does? My client, Martin Creaser.”

“Mr. Creaser comes from a lower-middle class family. One of seven kids, Martin was raised on a farm. Having little opportunity or guidance when he was thrust into the big city at a young age, Martin decided to take it upon himself to go into construction. From there, he got married, and even planned to have a family. Things were hectic… and messy… and stressful… but he wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

Sam pauses, smile turning acidic. “Until he was charged with premeditated murder. Imagine that. A husband, a future father—like some of you. All because he frequented a local establishment for their immaculate cherry pies.”

“The prosecution will introduce their evidence in further detail. They will try to persuade you that my client is guilty of premeditated murder. I think you’ll find that the only thing Mr. Creaser is truly guilty of is time and place. Thank you.”

Sam somehow strides back to his table with his Pinocchio nose blocking his vision. Next to Dean, Liz hisses, “If he sweet-talks my pies _one more time_ …”

He huffs a laugh.

It’s the first one in three weeks.

*~*

The experience is uncanny to being abducted: Flashing lights. Booming voices. Elongated sticks. They poke and prod with them over throngs of others of their kind, talk feverishly over one another, and shine their cameras to get the best shot of their distressed subject.

It’s Dean’s least favorite part of lawyering, but the press won’t relent until they have what they came for.

“You don’t have to talk to them,” Dean says as they descend the steps of the courthouse. “I can take care of it for you. Just say the word.”

He can see the unsteady rise and fall of her chest, but Liz doesn’t cry. Instead, she straps her teeth to her jaw the way a mother straps her child into a car seat and says, determinedly, “No. I wanna talk.”

Dean nods and forcibly removes his hand from her back as they resume their journey down the stairs, knowing well enough she can handle it on her own. Dean knows nothing about parenting aside from raising his little brother, but those paternal instincts kick in with Liz. It’s hard for Dean to see someone he considers a daughter have to go to such lengths just to sleep a little better at night. But he owes it to Benny. He owes it to be there for her the way he was for him these past few years.

“Miss Lafitte!” the first reporter shouts. Liz swerves in time before the mic gives her a Rocky-style black eye. “What’s it like seeing the man who murdered your father in the same courtroom?”

The questions keep coming, one after the other.

“Can and will you try for the death penalty?”

“What do you believe was Martin Creaser’s motive for murder?”

“Is your restaurant a hot-spot for criminal activity?”

But no matter how brutal, there’s only one question that sets her off:

“Is it true your father’s reputation was tarnished after smuggling drugs through the Gulf of Mexico?”

“May I?” she asks Dean, who’s standing right behind her, through even tighter-clenched teeth.

“My pleasure. Just be careful,” Dean warns in her ear, “just give it to ‘em tastefully.”

Liz’s lips turn up in a small smile. “Dean, I’m from the South, remember? My mamma taught me manners.” With that, she beckons the reporter over. Everyone huddles even tighter around them like a football team, only they’re ironically against them. “I won’t speak unless that light is outta my eyes.”

The cameraman quickly obeys.

“Thank you. To answer your question about my father smugglin’ drugs, no. His reputation wahn’t tarnished. Yes, he made his mistakes. He was a man with an addiction, but a man who turned that addiction into somethin’ he loved, and made other people feel the same way doin’ it.”

Liz takes a moment to look around amongst the other sardines in the tightly packed space as a smile crosses her face. Not just any smile, though: One that tells Dean she’s ready to bust this can wide open. “If ya’ll showed as much hospitality as you’re showin’ me right now in our restaurant, my father wouldn’t hesitate whippin’ out his spatula.”

“Miss Lafitte! Miss Laf—!”

“Was that a… double entendre?” Dean asks as they head to the parking lot.

Liz narrows her eyes. “You tell me, Billy Flynn.”

Again, for the first time in weeks, Dean remembers how to smile. “You know, Billy Flynn was a _defense_ lawyer.”

Liz nods, considering it. “True. Since your brother has the hair for it, I’ll give him Richard Gere.”

*~*

“How long have you been employed as a waitress at _Louisiana Soul,_ Miss Lafitte?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years,” Dean repeats, “so would you say you’re pretty familiar with the clientele?”

Elizabeth’s hazel eyes fly faster than a pointer-laser to Martin Creaser sitting at his respective table. If looks really could kill, Martin would have that laser aimed right between his eyes. “I am.”

“So you were probably familiar with Martin Creaser,” Dean offers.

“Actually, I hadn’t seen him till a few months before my father died. Which is strange, ‘cause all our clientele’re regulars,” she replies, Louisianan accent coming out again. She’s almost outgrown it—almost being the operative word. Whenever Liz gets jibbed on a tip, especially when a certain someone named Garth Fitzgerald IV comes in, ordering just a black coffee, it creeps back into her dialect.

Needless to say, jibbed is the understatement of the year to describe the loss she’s experienced over the course of a few weeks.

“So Mr. Creaser was a new customer?”

“The only new customers are the ones that come in with the regulars, and he was alone every time I saw him,” she says. “He would stop in for our cherry pie a couple times a week.”

“Elizabeth, how would you describe Mr. Creaser?”

Elizabeth’s eyes dart back to Martin. “Friendly enough. But there was somethin’ cold about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, once, he asked to borrow my phone to call his wife, and in the middle of the call, as I was takin’ his plate away, he grabbed my wrist and smirked.”

“Perhaps he was trying to catch your attention to thank you before you left.”

“No,” Elizabeth states. “No, he grabbed me hard. I had the indents of his fingernails on my hand for a week afta. And his smile was… concernin’. ‘Course, it wahn’t like he was propositionin’ anythang, or forcin’ himself onto me, so I didn’t report it. But his smile was menacin’. Forebodin’, almost.”

“Can you clarify your use of the word foreboding?”

“Objection!” Sam calls. “Leading.”

“Overruled. Clarify, Miss Lafitte.”

Elizabeth’s gaze hardens on Martin. “Like he knew somethin’ you didn’t. Like he a man with an agenda.”

Sam shoots up from his chair like a geyser. “Alright, that’s enou—!”

“No further questions, your Honor.”

 

 

“Miss Lafitte, you worked alongside your father at _Louisiana Soul_ before his passing, correct?”

“That’s true.”

“So you’d say you knew him pretty well.”

“My father?” Elizabeth asks, scoffing. “Uhm… yeah. As well as any daughter growin’ up in a nuclear family would.”

Sam tilts his head a little. Not to Dean’s surprise, a thick strand of his shoulder-length chocolate hair doesn’t brush against one of his high-set cheekbones. His brother is stiff as is. He imagines his myriad hair products are no different. “Can you define nuclear?”

“Normal. Nothin’ outta the ordinary. Had a mother till I was ten, then my dad single-handedly raised me to be the home-grown, apple pie offspring you see before ya.” Elizabeth says that last part without humor. She leans into the mic, nostrils red and flaring like two sirens going off, making sure everyone hears her when she says in a much lower voice: “He was a great father. The best.”

“Precisely,” Sam remarks— _that_ to Dean’s surprise. That is until the next words fly from his mouth: “So there would be no reason anyone would want to harm him. No one close to him, and certainly not a random stranger that popped into the restaurant angling for cherry pie.”

“Objection!” Dean cuts in. “Leading.”

“Overruled.”

Sam grins at Dean as he heads back to his table. “No further questions, your Honor.”

*~*

“Mr. Creaser, will you state your full name and occupation for the court.”

Everyone who knows Martin knows an awkward, loose-screw kind of guy. So it only brings a small, devious smile to Dean’s face when Martin blinks rapidly and, as if it’s being wiretapped, whispers softly, hand covering the head of the mic: “I’m uh… sorry, can you repeat the question?”

Dean can visibly see Sam’s jaw grinding as he repeats, “Will you please state your full name and occupation for the court, Mr. Creaser.”

“Ooh, right!” Martin exclaims into the mic, scaring himself and half the jurors. “Martin Creaser. I’m a construction worker for the city.”

“Thank you, Mr. Creaser. So, as a construction worker, would you say your job requires a lot of faith in your fellow coworkers and vice versa?”

“Absolutely,” he rejoins, “if someone lays the wrong foundation or doesn’t use enough adhesive, the whole project could collapse. It could mean numerous injuries or even fatalities.”

“And I’m guessing—or hoping, rather, for the sake of people’s lives—you haven’t made either of those mistakes, or any others, on the job.”

“I haven’t, no. I would not only be fired and slapped with a lawsuit, but I would be putting my crew members’ lives at risk. I depend on them like they depend on me to be there every day. They’re family.” Martin snaps his head out of his musings catching Liz’s red face and visibly gulps. “Uhm… so no, I have not, nor will I ever put them or myself in the line of fire over something that’s completely avoidable.”

“No further questions, your Honor.”

 

 

"So, Martin, I understand you've been in and out of several psychiatric facilities in the past year."

Martin shoots his head to Sam, then back at Dean. "That's correct."

"What are you being treated for?"

"Objection, your Honor,” Sam states. “Immaterial. Not to mention, a complete violation of my client's rights under HIPAA."

"Overruled. We've been approved a subpoena because we’ve deemed it relevant to the case. Answer the question, Mr. Creaser."

Dean turns around, only briefly, to tap his forehead. Sam pats his own before realizing the implication of sweat pooling between the large intends and scowls, only adding to the troubled wrinkles.

"Uh... headaches, mostly,” Martin responds. “I used to be able to pop Aspirin, but now they just turn into migraines. I'd be struck with temporary amnesia and sometimes delusions."

"How would you describe these delusions?" Dean asks. "Were they, say, at any time violent?"

"Objection!” Sam interjects, “Leading."

"Sustained. Mr. Winchester, you know the rules about mental health records. Unless you’re approved by the board of mental health and are treating Mr. Creaser, stick to general questions."

"Let me rephrase," Dean says, feeling the first bubble of anger rise to the top of his boiling stomach, "Did you find your delusions to be unsettling?"

"Objection! Leading again."

"Mr. Winchester, stay on topic or I will hold you in contempt of the court."

"Did your migraine occur when you were murdering my client's father with your bare—?"

"Court adjourned!” the judge announces, banging his mallet. “Mr. Winchester, congratulations, you just bought your client a two weeks' setback. I apologize to the jurors. We'll resume court on the 21st of next month."

 

 

"Excuse me, Miss Lafitte—my condolences. Dean, can I speak to you?"

Dean doesn’t have to turn around to know that voice. “Will you excuse me, Liz?”

“Oh you’re excused, _indefinitely,_ ” Liz smarts before stalking off down the corridor. Dean watches her go and catches Sam doing the same from the opposite end of the hall, grinning something wicked. Dean turns back to the man before him with a tired sigh.

“Sorry, Cas, what’s up?”

Cas is still wearing his long, but conforming black robe over his suit and tie. The only thing different about him now is the absence of his mallet. “That’s _Judge Novak_ to you,” he says with pointed eyes, though his smile tells a different story. “And I just wanted to check in on you after… you know, _that._ I know this is a personal case for you. And I know you’re a good man, I’m just doing my job—”

“You never need to explain, Cas,” Dean interjects, forcing a small smile. “After all, we’re both in the business, and we’ve known each other for nine years. I know you’d never take a personal grudge against me.” Dean pauses and adds for good measure: “Or, at least I’d _hope_ not.”

Cas laughs, “Definitely not. Just don’t give me a reason to.”

“Noted.”

They stand there for a moment just looking at each other before Dean interjects, “Well, I better find Liz before she slashes my tires.”

“Again, no judgment here, but you probably deserve it.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Yeah.”

*~*

“We call Elizabeth Lafitte to the stand.”

Dean’s mouth drops like the handle of a slot machine being yanked by a compulsive gambler named Sam Winchester. That’s just what this case needs: More risks.

Liz turns to Dean for confirmation. He nods, albeit with hesitance. It’s not like he has any other choice. “Go ahead.”

“What’s he gonna ask?”

“I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing,” Dean sighs. Liz rolls her eyes, so he places a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, listen: You’ve got this. I’ve seen you get hit on by smarmier men at the restaurant.”

Liz’s smile gets lost in translation between her brain and her mouth, but before standing up, she manages to reply, “You wouldn’t be wrong about that.”

Dean’s heart moves in sync with every step Sam takes towards the witness podium. He believes what he told Liz—the girl really can handle anything. He’s just not sure if this case can.

“Miss Lafitte,” Sam greets. His grin makes Dean’s stomach churn. “Don’t worry, I won’t tear you apart. After all, you’ve already done that yourself.” He holds up his right hand and brings it to rest over his heart. “But believe me, I understand.”

“Oh really?” Liz scoffs.

“Miss Lafitte,” Cas warns with no real heat. Even he’s done with Sam.

Sam nods and what looks like forces a smile down to say the next part: “Quite so. I understand why you got yourself into this mess. And I’m sorry to have to be the one to break it to the jury. I’m sure you wanted to do it on your own time, when you two were ready.”

Liz purses her lips. “Sorry… actually, I’m not… but am I missin’ somethin’?”

“Missing?” Sam scoffs. “Hardly! Not when the man you’re having an affair with is in this very room.”

“Objection, your Honor,” Dean cuts in, “I… have no idea what I’m objecting to. Inflammatory? Speculation? _Moral indecency?”_

“—And that man is Dean Winchester.”

Every juror snaps their head back to the case like a flock of pigeons gathering around the last bread crumb.

Dean waves a finger with a tight-lipped grin. “There it is. Okay: Um, let’s see… hearsay, speculation, and… inflammatory? Yeapp.”

"Overruled. Mr. Winchester, this is not a children's playground,” Cas states, shooting blue-tipped daggers at Sam. “Spreading rumors about the defendant and his representative is immoral and punishable by law."

"Believe me, your Honor,” Sam says, “it's related to the case. And they’re far from rumors.”

Cas folds his arms over his chest. Dean has to admit, as disgusted as he is at Sam’s claim, watching Cas disown his brother is priceless. He’s even grinning a little. "Would you mind enlightening me?”

Sam’s lips turn up like a pitchfork. "Delighted, your Honor,” he says before diving into his Hallmark narrative: “You see, Dean here is closely tied to the Lafittes, so I don't blame him for being partial to Miss Laffite. In fact, I pity him. He's a man who, like Elizabeth, lost a mother. And now he’s just lost his best friend." Sam turns to shoot a brow at the jury before continuing: "But he's also a man who gained a lover—the defendant, Elizabeth Lafitte.”

“She's young, she's attractive, and she falls for Mr. Lafitte's best friend and Cajun enthusiast, Dean Winchester. Mr. Winchester reciprocates the feelings. Mr. Lafitte becomes enraged and severs his longtime relations with a man he thought he could trust with his own life. But before he can carry out a murder of his own, Elizabeth Lafitte kills her father.”

Sam shrugs, as if this whole accusation is absolutely no big deal. “I would venture to say this gives Miss Lafitte a motive more valid than a man’s 'personal grudge' against a restaurant owner with two bucks to his name."

Dean should be balls-to-the-walls mad. He should be feeling needles in his veins and the weight of the sun on his face, quickly lighting up his body like the annual Rockefeller Christmas tree.

Dean has a lot of _should_ ’s to account for in his short life.

Like him should have stopping Liz from jumping up from her seat and bolting out of the courtroom.

"Well, Mr. Winchester," Cas says, cutting through the prolonged silence, "Thank you for buying _your_ client a whole month with that riveting narrative. Court adjourned until the 21st of next month."

 

 

Dean doesn’t waste a second approaching his brother outside the courthouse. “Can I talk to you?”

Sam turns his head, again with heavy nonchalance, from the throngs of reporters at his feet. He grins and throws an arm around Dean’s shoulders, earning half a dozen blinding snaps. Dean may not be infuriated, but he still wants more than anything to use his hands for something other than twiddling his thumbs to push him away. But they’re in the public eye, which means this case can go from worse to a whole lot worse for him in less than a second if he does.

“ _Alone,”_ Dean emphasizes just loud enough for Sam to hear.

Sam excuses himself from the press. They move to a green, shaded area that’s still part of town hall, but considered private property due to odd land division.

“What’s up?”

“What’s—?!” Dean scoffs and throws his arms down. “I’m not gonna argue with you anymore. Say what you want about me, okay, but leave Liz out of this. You and I both know she didn’t commit that murder. And if you think the jury will fall for that Jerry Springer bullsh—”

“Dean, don’t you get it?” Sam’s mouth stretches into a lopsided smile, revealing his dimples. “We’re lawyers. We can make people believe whatever we want. You of all people should know drama sells.” He laughs and shifts in his stance, continuing, “People _want_ conflict. They want something that can entertain them while they eat on their portable TV trays. And you know who they subscribe to? The people that put _out_ those stories.”

Dean takes a moment to search Sam’s eyes.

“What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” Dean replies, shrugging—returning the same overwhelming level of nonchalance, “just wondering where my brother is behind the bravado in front of me.”

Sam throws his head back with a laugh, “I could ask the same of you.”

"Wait, you... you seriously buy his story?" He takes another moment to look at Sam, this time harder and longer. His eyes blow wide when he sees it, and it hurts him worse than any accusation Sam can throw at him: "You don't."

"I don't?"

"No.” Dean shakes his head, scoffing. "No, you just hate Benny that much. You'd go out of your way to destroy the life of a family struck by tragedy just to see me hurt. Don't you remember Mom?"

Sam grinds his jaw. "Don't bring Mom into this."

"You're willing to let a murderer walk free when Mom's killer is still out there?" Dean persists. Although he can’t impose a threat like he used to when they were kids and Sam was shorter than him, he squares up anyhow. Only this time, he’s threatening Sam’s busted moral compass. He still believes somewhere in there, Sam’s got a heart. He has to, or he’s going to be short not one, but two best friends in less than a month.

"Don't try acting like you're some sort of saint when you prosecuted Amy Pond.”

Dean gulps. The saliva, much like the spiteful words trapped in his mouth, slithers down his throat before disappearing in the deep trenches of his stomach. "I've made my mistakes; I'll be the first to own up to that. That's why this is about making it right. So please, I’m asking you to do the right thing, Sammy. I know you know what it is."

Sam grabs the sunglasses folded against his Armani suit with another inerasable smirk. "I'll see you in court next month, Mr. Winchester."

*~*

“So, when were you going to tell me?”

Dean scoffs. His breath would normally be caught on the scenery if his mind wasn’t so preoccupied. Joshua’s Park is something straight out of a painting. Every stroke of color, from every blooming purple may-pop and milkweed flower to the husky green sycamore trees, is far from a happy accident. The luminous lake that stretches a mile out, the pigeons bathing in it with the grace of swans—even the gravel is deliberate. Dean can always feel each individual grain beneath the soles of his tennis shoes.

“I would’ve told you had I known I was even _having_ an affair,” Dean replies. It’s a shame when not even the Golden Retrievers passing by him, swinging their long, messy tails like dusting brushes in the process, can cheer him up. It only reminds him of Sam. They’re his favorite dog breed. “God, I can’t believe him, you know?”

“You can.”

“What?”

“You _can_ believe him,” Cas states, as usual, peeking right into that hole he drilled into Dean’s head. “He’s your brother. He’s hurt you before, and you know he’s capable of doing it again. But you can’t be upset with him, because you love him too much.”

Dean blinks a few times before laughing, albeit weakly, “You should’ve been a therapist.”

“Please, I get paid enough to listen to people’s problems as it is.”

“Well. Remind me to never come to you about my personal issues.”

“Dean, I’ve heard enough about your IBS.”

“Fair enough,” Dean says, stopping to look at him.

God, he’s gorgeous like this. His hair’s brushed back by the light wind coursing the afternoon summer air, looking more like sails on a boat at a sea the color of his eyes, and reminding Dean of where he wishes he was with him—far away from all this.

The sun is hitting his tanned face perfectly, outlining his high-set cheekbones and the anthill around his plush mouth, which is bunching together due to the smile crossing his face. “So, what next, Billy Flynn?”

Dean responds leaning in to kiss him. He pulls back, though not completely, still leaving his hands on either sides of the sun’s canvas and says, “I don’t know.”

“Sounds exciting,” Cas rejoins, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist, “like an adventure.”

“Well get excited. I have a feeling we’re going to be climbing some fucking mountains soon.”

*~*

Dean doesn’t expect the whole court to be gaping at him like a human fly on a mountain of shit when he walks through the doors.

A few people cough, most just chatter amongst themselves. He sees Sam grinning, and Elizabeth at their table, back steadfastly faced away from him and accompanied by a man who puts the ‘thin’ in Thin Mints, and is as equally unsalty.

Garth Fitzgerald IV.   _Louisiana Soul_ regular.

And another prosecuting lawyer for the state of Lawrence.

Dean’s eyes pan over to the judge’s chair, and he’s even more baffled by what he sees—which _isn’t_ Cas. Instead, it’s Naomi Tapping. He _hates_ Naomi, with her Ellen DeGeneres hair and the thin-lipped purse of her lips whenever anyone so much as breathes near her. She’s even looking at Dean right now like she’s trying to laser away the lines of confusion on his face.

“If you’re lost, Mr. Winchester, I can direct you to security. I’m sure they’d be happy to guide you in the right direction.” By a miracle, she even grins a little. “Or perhaps you’d be more inclined to ask your _partner_ , Judge Novak.”

 

 

As Dean’s walking out—more like carrying his feet by minimal willpower against the white linoleum tile, really—he gets a buzz in his pocket. It’s a text from Sam, the first one in years:

_Well… looks like I was wrong about you and Elizabeth. (;_

*~*

Dean skips his usual morning shake for the couch in the living room.

It’s not like he has any place to be, considering he’s out a job until his next case. Unless he takes Frank Devereaux’s, but that man’s a whole Kentucky Fried Bucket of Crazy. Suing Dick Roman of Roman Enterprises for four counts of kidnapping _and_ false imprisonment is ill-advised for not only an Average Spiked Joe like Frank, but for Dean—even if he’s being offered a hefty sum. Dick Roman is a fellow crook, no doubt, but no way is Dean tarnishing his reputation for a regular Jack Torrance. That’s like a local burger joint taking on McDonald’s.

Immediately after flopping down and turning the TV on, he flips it to something more bearable. Even as a lawyer, he can’t stand re-run shows like _Judge Judy_ and _The People’s Court_. It’s like an actor watching his own film—albeit a flowery, poorly-produced and continuity-stricken version. (He was going to use the word “fabricated”, but that part is accurate enough.) Plus, it’s just easier to move past it so he won’t have to admit to having a hard-on for Judge Judy…

Not that he lives within radius of anyone who can overhear him. The only thing separating his 180 degree view of the lake and the towering evergreen trees next to it is the three-foot glass panels surrounding his front porch. Every wall in his place is glass too, so unless he’s worried about squirrels catching a peak at his nuts, he has unlimited privacy.

And he hates it.

Well, okay, he doesn’t hate the house—it’s an architectural masterpiece. But it’s not what he wants. Hence why he’s sitting on his couch on a Wednesday afternoon, somehow back on the _real_ drama that’s the 8 o’clock news instead of admiring the view.

“ _Thanks, Jan,”_ the newscaster with the nice rack interrupts his musings, _“I’m outside the courthouse, where Martin Creaser just confessed to the brutal murder of Benny Lafitte, former owner of_ Louisiana Soul _, a local mom-and-pop Cajun restaurant off 53 rd and Maker Street._ _We currently have a correspondent inside, filming the anticipatory press conference by_ _the prosecuting party, Lafitte’s daughter, Elizabeth, and her lawyer, Garth Fitzgerald. Stay tuned.”_

Dean doesn’t even have time to blink before the camera cuts to Liz in front of a podium. She looks like clothes left overnight after a second tumble press cycle. Her brunette hair is beyond frayed, and her large cheekbones have lost their natural pink, but a smile is present nonetheless.

 _“Today, my father, Benny Roy Lafitte, has been granted justice,”_ she says. _“And today, I’ve been granted a night’s worth of sleep, knowin’ the man who killed him isn’t gonna to do the same to someone else’s father anytime soon.”_

Her lip quivers, but no tears are shed. In fact, she squares her jaw more than it already is, like that afternoon outside the courthouse before the press questions, and holds her head higher, going onto say: _“But know that I will not rest. Though it’s not for another thirty years when he’s released from jail, I want nothin’ than to thank Martin Creaser. For givin’ me a purpose. For showin’ me through an unprecedented act of self-realization that I’m stronger than I knew I was. For allowin’ me to believe I can send a man to jail twice.”_

“That’s my girl!” Dean hoots, fist-bumping the air before turning his head towards the ceiling. “You hear that, you old geezer?! That’s your daughter! Uhh!”

“ _No… no.”_

Dean’s eyes and ears perk up at those words. He turns back to the screen to see Liz shaking her head.

“ _I don’t_ wanna _thank local law enforcement. Instead, I wanna give them a piece of advice: Take lessons from Dean Winchester,”_ she remarks. _“Dean has done more to support me than anyone in this town. He’s been and continues to be a second father to me after his best friend’s—my father’s—death. And most importantly, he believed me when no one else did. So Dean…”_ Liz looks directly into Channel 10’s correspondence camera with a full-on smile. “ _Thank you. For everything.”_

Bad timing for someone to ring the doorbell, because he forgot to replace his dust filter.

He forcibly removes himself from the couch and wipes away his tears before seeing who’s at the door.

Once he does, he throws down a sigh and plots over to turn the nob.

“Come in,” he deadpans after swinging the door open.

“Ooh. No, I’m—no, I won’t be very long.”

“ _Sam,_ ” Dean gripes, “don’t make this weirder than it already is.”

Sam rolls his eyes, a comfort to Dean—a reminder of a time when they acted like brothers. He wants to hate Sam for convincing him to go into law. He wants to hate him for being accepted into Stanford when he was accepted into the University of Kansas. Not that there’s anything wrong with the University of Kansas, but it’s not Stanford. It barely made his third school of choice, only because Sioux Falls dropped their law program shortly after he drafted a list of schools.

But Sam’s his brother. Plus, it’s not like he could wiggle out of his responsibility as an older brother when his father was always at the station, pounding away, trying and failing to bring justice to his wife’s murder, to watch his little brother—and he wouldn’t have traded that responsibility for a normal childhood. Otherwise, he and Sam would be strangers. Dean wouldn’t have the comfort of knowing someone has his back, and vice versa.

And despite everything he’s used against him in a court of law, despite law being the one thing that’s divided them since, he’s proud of Sam. To know he raised someone to be a doggedly passionate human being—not to mention the second-best lawyer in the world—is worth more than every case he’s won in his ten year career.

Dean gestures to the leather couch. He’s seen the view enough to know what it looks like this time of day: a bright azure and rainbow in hue due to the vivid colors of man and land nature in its reflection, but it’s only temporary. It’s like there’s a thin sheet of cellophane pulled around its circumference, causing long, even ripples in the colored waters—a desperate effort to preserve it.

Everything is temporary. Dean learned that the hard way recently.

“I advised him to confess.”

Dean’s eyes shoot up at that, mimicking the tall evergreen trees surrounding them. “What?”

“Martin was three syllables away from confessing anyhow,” Sam says, shrugging. “Of course, being his defense attorney, I was adamant about him keeping quiet, but… I also apologized to Liz for my… _eccentricity_ in the courtroom.”

He pauses, massaging his thumb into the large palm of his left hand somewhat aggressively. “You’re right, I hated Benny,” he interjects suddenly. “I hated how he wormed his way into your life. I hated how he stole the job I _sucked_ at, the one job that was supposed to come natural to me, being your brother, and I just...”

Sam takes a breath and releases his hands as he faces Dean again. “Anyway, he didn’t deserve to die because of my own mistakes. And Crazy Martin didn’t deserve to walk because of my pride. I’m sorry. For my actions and your loss.”

“I forgive you, Sammy,” Dean replies, scoffing, “I’ve always forgiven you. You just have to loosen up on yourself a little bit.”

“Yeah.” Sam huffs a laugh and sniffs, highlighting the carpet beneath the soles of his brown leather Oxford’s. “Yeah.”

Sam takes advantage of the view as a brief silence lingers between them like ash after a forest fire. Dean waits for the all-too familiar wrinkles in his large forehead to smooth out before speaking up again: “You know, Mom and Dad’s anniversary is around the corner. Maybe we should spend some time with Dad, keep him company. We can even make a day out of it.”

Sam turns to Dean, the nearly unrecognizable gesture of a sincere smile crossing his face. “Yeah… yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”


End file.
